


Parity

by Berty



Category: due South
Genre: First Time, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray has a lesson in partnership for Fraser - what it is and what it's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nicci](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicci/gifts), [ximeria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ximeria/gifts).



Dief is out of the car before I am, leaping over my shoulder and loping off towards the quayside. The message I got from dispatch was not big on details - just an address - and I'm surprised to see so much activity when I climb out after him. The cold takes my breath away for a second, and I dig my hands into my pockets against the bitter wind that blows in off the slate grey water.

It's weird that he left Dief with me. Fraser has never done something like that before. To find the furball tucked under my desk was kind of conflicting. I mean - pleased that Frase trusted me enough to watch him, and that Dief actually agreed to stay with me, but at the same time it was odd enough to have made me slightly nervous.

Arriving here to find uniforms, paramedics, the Duck Boys and Welsh has cranked slightly nervous right up there to quite concerned. Especially as it seems to me that my arrival has caused a bit of a stir. That can't be a good thing.

The Lieu is talking to a guy I don't recognise, so I walk over to Dewey who's talking to Jack and deliberately trying to avoid my eye.

"What've we got?"

"Drug shipment bust which got outta hand," Dewey explains. Judging by the dinghies already out on the water and the bits of wreckage that the wind is edging towards the shore, I'd say that out of hand is an understatement.

"What happened?"

"We got a tip off, last minute, that something was going down. Ricardo something - friend of Fraser's?"

I nod, although he isn't. Ricardo Durrani is a small-time lowlife who scares easy and feeds us just enough information that he's covered his bets with the local law and the big distributors. The guy even looks like a weasel.

"They made us as soon as we arrived and tried to take off with only half the goods unloaded. One of them took out Brecht and clipped Wong but Fraser and Waugh managed to jump onboard."

I nod some more, spinning my hand in front of his nose, encouraging him to cut to the chase at the same time as I make a sweep of the personnel. Waugh is wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the back of an ambulance and talking to a medic. Dief is behaving like a headcase, bounding backwards and forwards, barking at the boats. I can see Wong propped against a tree looking shaken but okay. The CPD circus is swinging into action with yellow tape being strung out between the road and the quay, marking off the crime scene. But...

"Anyway, someone must have got off a shot into the fuel line of their cruiser, because there's this almighty bang and..."

"Where's Fraser?"

Their eyes slide off my face like I'm suddenly invisible, and my breath seems to freeze inside my lungs. Feels like I'll never take another. Dewey looks around like he's looking for him or something. Jack just drops his gaze to the dirt.

I turn around, trying to make some sense of this. "Where's Fraser?" I ask again, louder. Welsh is watching me; he's still talking in a low tone to the suit with him, but his eyes don't leave my face.

I turn back to my colleagues, my fellow officers, the guys who are supposed to be on the same side as me. "Jack," I growl, "tell me where Fraser is."

Dewey nervously takes me by the shoulder and begins to turn me towards the cars. "Ray, listen..." But all I can hear is my heart beating and the wolf barking and barking. Dewey's explanations are nothing more than a "bwahbwahbwah" - an irritating buzz while I'm trying to think here.

Dief's barking rolls into a howl, echoing over the outboard motors. It's a sound I've never heard before except on Discovery Channel and I can't explain how it makes my guts go hard and turn to liquid at the same time. The world turns a little bit grey and there's a weird new whistling in my ears.

I grab a handful of jacket and yank it close to me. "Dewey, I'm gonna say this just one more time and, so help me, if you don't fucking cough it up, I'm gonna rip your fucking head off. Where. Is. Fraser?"

"We don't think he made it." Jack's voice comes from beside me, low and pained and tired.

And I could do that. I could. I could do the hollow thing. Stay calm. Detached. Accept that this is sometimes the price of what we do. The 'all in a day's work' thing.

But I don't.

"How long?"

Jack glances at his watch. "Twenty two minutes."

I push Dewey away roughly and walk to the water. So much fucking water. Boats are criss-crossing back and forth, divers are on the scene already; I don't know where to look first.

"Detective." It's Welsh; I don't need to turn to confirm it. His growly drawl is soft and contained, for my ears only. It's a warning and sympathy at the same time.

Fuck him.

Only Dief seems to have the right idea - tracking along the waterfront, watching, barking, watching some more. Waiting for Fraser.

"Vecchio. Vecchio!" Lieu says, getting more urgent. "Ray!" he finally tries, putting a hand on my arm. I spin toward him and he pulls back, but only a little, wary but unafraid; good cop, good guy, but in my fucking way right now. He takes a handful of my sleeve and starts to walk me away from the water.

I pull off my jacket, leaving Welsh holding it, and I'm struggling out of my holster before he realises what I'm up to.

"Ray, you can't swim," he says reasonably and gently - God, I hate that tone. That tone means 'you're too late, it's done'.

And that's just bullshit.

"I can swim. Fraser taught me," I argue. Realistically, I know that what Fraser taught me was floating and flapping enough that you don't drown, but I can't just stand here and wait. Fraser is in trouble and it's my job to make sure he's okay. That's what partners do. That's a duet.

"Ray," Welsh says sharply, getting into my face. "What do you think you can achieve here? I don't need another..." he stops short and shakes his head, looking away.

I stare at him for a minute.

He was gonna say 'dead cop'.

I can't quite get my head around that, so I'm not listening anymore. I haven't got time for this.

I walk back to the quayside. Dief is still barking like a lunatic, making everyone nervous.

The water looks cold and deep and totally fucking scary, but he's in there, so that's where I need to be. I take a breath, and another, and... suddenly two meaty arms come around my shoulders, dragging me back from the water's edge.

"No you don't, Kowalski," the Lieu growls, and that's given the game away. If Welsh is calling me by my real name, it's seriously deep shit time. He's got a grip on him and a weight advantage, but I have motivation in shovelfuls. I jerk an elbow into his gut and twist out of his grasp.

"Don't be stupid, Ray. I've got every goddamned diver and police cruiser in the water already. They don't have time to be coaching you, they're out there trying to find your partner, Detective," Welsh barks.

I'm getting up into his face now, wondering about taking a pop at him when there's shouting over his shoulder - and it sounds excited. I duck around Welsh and make towards the source of the noise. A knot of uniforms is crowded on the waterfront and Dief is running round and round them, stopping to look out to the water, then running back the other way.

I'm getting closer when I see a flash of red among the blues and blacks of the CPD. It's darker than usual, wet of course, but definitely red. And there he is, no hat, cut on his head, missing a boot, jacket ripped, dripping, shivering, being wrapped in scratchy grey blankets, paramedics fighting through the uniforms to get at him.

Fraser.

I stop in my tracks.

Can't remember how to walk suddenly.

Or breathe.

And as if he can hear my confusion over all the noise and crap that's going on around him, his head comes up and he's looking for me. Don't ask me how I know it's me he's searching for, he just is. He's scanning the cars, the faces of the cluster around the ambulance, the arresting officers and finally he sees me. He blinks, focuses - he's panting, shivering and I have no fucking idea what that is in his eyes. Relief? Apology? Gratitude? Surprise? 'Good Lord, Ray. I seem to have survived a waterborne explosion'?

But then he catches sight of what must be written all over my face. And that would be fucking terror. His eyes widen in shock and he moves toward me, a bit wobbly, but stepping past the paramedics and uniforms without so much as a glance.

And I'm walking - jogging - running flat out at him.

I hit him hard, my arms coming around him as if I'd done this a hundred times before, but he doesn't give an inch; he's solid - it's like running into a wet, red tree. I hold him so tightly, soaking my shirt and best pants against his drenched uniform and not giving a damn.

Dief is yipping and dancing laps around us, behaving like a freak, so he's in good company.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Fraser's muttering against my shoulder.

"You stupid bastard. Don't you do that. Don't you fucking **do** that, hear me?"

"I'm so sorry. I got disoriented by the blast and..."

That's when I wonder how many more times I'm going to have to almost lose him before one of us cracks and admits what we both know is true. Before one of us says all the things we don't say. I clutch his shoulders and hold him away from me far enough to see his white face and the anguish in his eyes, and I decide that it's none.

No more times.

I can't do this anymore.

Dropping my forehead against his, I feel the chill of lake water against my skin. "I love you, Frase."

"And I you, Ray," he chatters back automatically.

And I could leave it there. I've said it - conscience clear and all that shit... but not this time. I pull him closer, my hands grabbing at his back. I feel his heart thumping against mine as his face falls back in the crook of my neck.

"No, Fraser, I love you. Get it? I _love you_ , you stupid fucking Mountie," I tell him low and rough, my lips just inches from his ear.

He stills instantly, going stiff and unyielding, and then he kind of sags like a puppet with its strings cut. I feel it; he's suddenly much heavier in my arms. And I'm shaking as hard as he's shivering.

"I know," he whispers.

I should let go. I'm not _so_ far gone that I don't know we're causing a scene. I'm pretty sure that every eye is on us, watching the crazy not-Italian cop out himself to his insane Mountie partner. I just can't bring myself to give a fuck. Let them look.

And it could be hours that I stand there and hug him, or it could be a split second. I have no idea. I don't need him to reply - all I wanted was to say it, just once, so next time ('cause there's always a next time with Frase) he'll know. Next time he can make the decision to jump or run or whatever the fuck super-Mountie stuff he's doing, knowing that I love him. I'm _in love_ with him. I care whether he lives of dies.

It's something he ought to know.

I'm holding too hard, I'm gonna bruise him, but my fingers won't co-operate. They finally have what they've been yearning for and they ain't letting go yet. No way. Just one more second.

It's the nervous-looking medics that finally persuade me to let them have him back. I step away, not far, but far enough that they can do their thing. His eyes keep flicking to mine and I can't drag my gaze off him. So we hit a snag when they try and put him in the ambulance.

"I'll take him," I say quietly, getting a firm hold on the wet sleeve of his tunic.

The paramedic woman gives me the evil eye. "Sir..."

"Ray..." Fraser begins.

"Shut up. I'll take him. Memorial, right?"

For a second I think there's gonna be words, because scary paramedic lady isn't taking her hand off Fraser's blanket. But Welsh appears at my shoulder.

"Is there a problem here, detective?"

"No problem, sir. I was just taking Constable Fraser here to get him checked over." I give medic dragon-woman a glare.

"Glad to see you back on dry land, Constable. How do you feel?"

"Fine, sir, really there's no need for... "

"Good. Make sure he gets there, detective." He fixes me with that baleful expression, unnerving and shrewd. Like he can see inside my head. For once I can meet this look without fidgeting. I've no excuses to make for bad paperwork, bad timekeeping or bad language. Cards on the table. This is me. The Lieu turns the same look on Fraser. The Mountie too holds Welsh's glare without flinching. So he's a little less straight than he normally is (Hardy har har), so he's a shivering, soaking state - but he still has the Mountie honesty thing going for him.

Welsh grunts. "Then I don't want to see either of you until Monday. When there will be an accounting of all that has passed here. Understood?"

"Yessir!"

"Thank you, sir."

I tug at Fraser's arm again and he follows me tamely towards the GTO. It's known as getting while the going's good.

"And Constable?"

We both turn back towards the Lieu and I feel like I'm about to get a detention.

Welsh has his arms crossed across his big chest and his eyebrows are drawn down. His eyes track from Fraser to me and back. He nods. "Good work," he says and the barest hint of a smile makes me wonder exactly what that means.

I can feel the stares follow us as we walk back to the car.

We don't speak on the drive to the hospital. Dief is giving Fraser's ears the intimate thing, checking he's okay. I crank up the heat as high as I can to counteract all that wet wool he's wearing. It's only a few minutes to Memorial, but every second grates, and Fraser doesn't even complain at the speed of my driving.

In a flash of inspiration I grab my bag from the trunk as we walk into the emergency clinic, so at least Fraser has dry clothes to change into, even if it is my ratty old gym gear and not designed for someone quite as broad and... neat... as he is.

Dief grumbles when Fraser reminds him about the no dogs policy in local medical facilities, but he must hear how tired Fraser sounds too, because he gives up a whole lot easier than he normally does.

Welsh or someone must have called ahead because there's none of the usual hanging around. Fraser is shown into a consultation room as soon as he's changed. I follow him in - like I'm Dief or something, and immediately the young Hispanic doctor asks me to leave.

Nope, sorry.

Apparently that isn't something my brain is ready to entertain, having almost lost Fraser once today already. As a kind of compromise, I walk over to the door and stand quietly, back leaned against the wall.

"I'm sorry. Unless you are his next of kin, you'll have to leave," the doc tells me.

"He's my partner. I'm staying."

Fraser looks at me with an odd intensity, and then says something very quietly to the guy, which makes him look up at me again. I smile sarcastically, teeth and attitude, but he says no more, just goes to work on Fraser.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in my Chicago PD shirt and a pair of too-tight sweats, Fraser looks terrifyingly mortal. Just like a regular guy who's been blown up and more than half drowned. The wound on his head isn't deep, just needs cleaning and taping. All his responses are coherent and correct as the doctor asks questions to rule out concussion. Although there's bruising to his chest and back, there're no broken bones or bleeding. And his core temperature is within acceptable parameters. I don't ask if that's acceptable for people in general or people who just took a twenty-minute dip in Lake Michigan in February.

Fraser looks tired but his eyes keep straying back to mine, over and over as he endures his check-up. And every time I hold his gaze, he blinks, looks slightly unnerved and looks away - like this possessive gig is a surprise to him. It shouldn't be, I've been doing it for months. Watching him. Looking out for him. Doing my best to keep him in one big, shiny, Mountie-shaped piece.

That's how I knew.

He loves me.

And he knows I love him.

It's just kind of been unspoken, so although we have this connection, we've never acknowledged it. We've never discussed it or tried to work out what it is and, weirdly, we've never even looked to see where it would take us. I mean, he's a guy, I'm a guy, and although I think he's led a pretty sheltered life, he must know what two guys can do, should the mood strike them. But it never has, before now.

I'm not sure what stopped us from taking this further. Maybe, like me, he's been worked over by Cupid before. Maybe, like me, this is a side of his personality that he's not completely comfortable with. Or maybe, like me, he knew a good thing when he saw it and didn't want to ruin it. 'Cause we're good together, me and him. Close. Tight. Friends. And it was enough until today. I didn't need more until I had to stand on a freezing cold quayside watching police cruisers try to find my partner's body while I listened to sympathetic bullshit.

Suddenly, everything changed.

As a kid I had a kaleidoscope, which I would play with for hours, turning and turning to make the pattern come right, so it would make sense to me. It was so rare, but for that single instant when all the shiny splinters would make my perfect snowflake it would be magic. And that's how it felt when his eyes found mine as he stood dripping and shivering. An instant of perfect clarity. Totally in focus. Totally in harmony. Like my life had made the final twist and had resolved itself into a snowflake.

Lame, I know.

And stupid. It's not like anything is actually decided or sorted. Yeah, the guy loves me. So what?

So nothing.

He could be on a completely different page to the one I'm on. Yes, I know he loves me, but that could mean anything. Like brothers. Like friends. Maybe he can't bear the idea of two guys fucking. I just don't know. But whatever it is he decides he's okay with, I'll take. And that's the resolution for me.

"Of course, I can't insist that you stay, but I would strongly advise that you do, just for the purposes of observation."

"Thank you, Dr. Hernandez, but I really do feel well enough to go home."

"Do you at least have someone to take care of you and to keep an eye on you in case...?"

"That would be me," I interrupt.

Fraser's eyes are unreadable as he looks up.

The doc turns toward me, coolly. "Are you familiar with the symptoms of hypothermia, shock and concussion, Mr...?"

"Vecchio. Detective Vecchio."

"Well, Detective Vecchio, I would imagine you would have had some first-aid training in the course of your career." He still sounds like he's talking down to me, but at least I think he's decided I'm not a total loser.

"Yeah, some."

"I can assure you, it won't be necessary..." Fraser tries to interrupt.

"Good. You need to keep a close watch on him for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours and if you have any doubt, please call immediately. I'm prescribing something for the bruising; you can collect it on your way out," Hernandez says, talking over the top of the Mountie.

"I'll do that," I agree, nodding in all the right places.

And we're out of there.

One soaking uniform (missing one boot and one hat) - check.

One little bag of pink pills - check.

One silent Mountie - check.

One deaf half-wolf - check.

One out of his depth cop - check.

We're good to go. To my place.

Fraser looks across at me for a long moment as I pass the turn that would take us back to the Consulate, but he says nothing. Which is wise. Because I have no idea what I'm gonna do next. I'm not sure if I want to scream at him, reason with him or kiss him. I guess it's all been a bit much for both of us.

So the shaking doesn't really set in until I lock the front door. Such a simple thing. Flicking the latch - we're not going out again today. Night-night world, the Kowalski/Fraser freakshow is closed for business.

Except...

Except my fucking hands are shuddering so badly that it takes me three attempts to get the latch latched and the bolts bolted. And then I have to check them all again - just to be sure.

When I turn around, the wolf is looking at me like I'm demented - there's a definite cock to his ears that says "Loser."

I ignore him and go to find Fraser, who is standing by the window, arms wrapped around himself, staring out into the darkening sky like he's waiting for something.

I turn up the thermostat, prop open the fire escape window for the wolf and switch on the crappy lamp with fingers that will not quit with the shaking thing. I stuff them in my pockets to try and kill them.

"Hey," I say quietly, staying safely on this side of the room. I can't trust myself to get too close to him right now - I don't know what I'd do.

Frase looks kind of freaked out over there, kind of... small. And that's the weirdest thought ever. Because Fraser? He's the biggest guy I know. Not physically or whatever, but... I dunno... spiritually, metaphorically, some other word that ends in 'ally'.

"How're you doin'?"

He nods distractedly. "I'm fine, Ray. It was very kind of you to offer to take me in..."

Here it comes.

"... but completely unnecessary. I can assure you that all I need is a good night's sleep and I will be as right as rain."

"Yeah, because you get nearly drowned on a daily basis. All in a day's work, right, Fraser?"

He doesn't even look at me. "Well, it's not something..."

"And that blowing up thing... it's just _so_ yesterday."

"I can hardly be..."

He keeps trying, but I'm not done.

"Fraser! You are **so** full of shit. You're staying here, you got me? Go take a hot shower, I'll find you something that fits."

To his credit he doesn't say anything, so I walk past him and into my bedroom. The shaking is getting worse; I can feel it in my guts, in my chest and in my voice. With stupid, clumsy hands I pull the biggest, loosest clothes I own out of my closet and go back to the living room as quickly as I can.

He's not there and the urge to puke is overwhelming.

"Fraser?" My voice sounds weird - tight and high. I go back to the door - it's still locked. In my hurry to turn, I catch the dish on the counter where I keep my keys and my badge, and it crashes to the floor in a jingle of change and a crack of ceramic.

I don't even stop.

"Fraser?" This is fucking stupid. I'm sweating and shuddering harder than ever. My apartment - it's not a big place, you know? There are only a limited number of places he could be.

That's when I hear the toilet flush and the shower start up.

The relief floods like warm water through my veins, making me dizzy. I walk... well stagger really, to the bathroom door and hear the reassuring sounds of Fraser moving around. Panting, I slide down the paintwork and land on my ass right outside the bathroom where I decide to just be for a while - to catch my breath and try to get a handle on the freaking out I'm doing.

I mean, I know I'm doing it - so that's a good thing, right? I can't be too psychotic if I know that I'm doing it. So what the fuck is wrong with me? Fraser is out of my sight for a minute and I go nutso. So this must be like shock or something. That stressy thing with all the letters... the... the... post stress shock thingy. Okay. So how long does that last? And are you supposed to get it when your partner _doesn't_ die? And will a Tylenol help?

I guess I've been sitting here a while when I hear Fraser open the door behind me. Light from the bathroom illuminates the steam that curls into the living room. Wordlessly I hold up the clothes I found. He takes them and shuts the door again.

When he re-emerges, I've gotten myself together enough to have found a can of soup, which I'm heating up. All my bowls are dirty in the sink, so I hook a couple of mugs off the shelf and use those instead.

"Have a seat," I tell Fraser as he walks up to me looking slightly lost with a handful of gym kit. I take the clothes, throw them into the corner, hand him the soup and he sits on the couch. That's twice he's done as I've said. He must have drunk more of that lake than I thought. Either that or my declaration on the quay has rattled him badly.

I sit down in the armchair, trying not to crowd him, but with this strange compulsion not to get too far away. He looks a little better after the shower - he has more colour anyway. But he still seems... I dunno... fragile somehow.

The shaking has calmed down to the point where I can actually drink my soup without tipping it all over myself, so things are looking up on that front.

"I didn't mean to sound ungrateful," he says quietly after a little while.

"I didn't mean to go at you like that," I admit, just as quietly and he smiles a tiny bit.

"I've grown accustomed to being self-reliant and it's hard for me to remember sometimes that..." He trails off, staring into his mug.

"There's nothing wrong with being able to look after yourself, Fraser, but you've gotta get over this Lone Ranger thing, right? You and me..."

There's an indignant growl from under the table.

"You, me and Dief," I amend, "... we're a team. It's not buddies to cut your team out of a deal."

"I know that, Ray."

"So why take the call without me? You could have 'phoned me, Fraser. And leaving Dief with me? What was that about? Did you know it was gonna go bad?"

And this isn't the first time he's gone his own way. Last time it cost him a beating at the hands of Warfield's apes. And that little stunt with Denny Scarpa that he kept me out of the loop on. He just doesn't get the whole 'partners' thing. I thought we'd already slugged this one out with the trust and the sharing issues. Or maybe this is how he worked with Vecchio?

"No, no. I mean I knew that Ricardo Durrani wasn't entirely trustworthy, so it did cross my mind that it could be a tricky situation."

"That crossed your mind, huh?"

"Only as a slight possibility."

Okay, got to stay calm here. Yelling at him will only make him defensive and pissy. "Right. Slight possibility. So you left Dief because..."

"I had to ride with Detectives Huey and Dewey, and you know how allergic Dewey gets."

"Riiiiight."

His face darkens a little and he looks away.

I should leave it. He's talking bull, but he's shaken and probably in shock himself. And yet I hear myself still talking... "And you didn't call me..."

"Because I knew you were in court today."

"You knew I'd finished. You knew I was getting something to eat on my way back to the two-seven." Because I called him to ask him if he had already eaten or if he wanted me to bring him something. Like partners do. So... "So what? This partnership is only for days that you feel like it?"

He puts down his untouched soup, bows his head and pinches his forehead between finger and thumb. "What do you want to hear, Ray? That I made a mistake? That I miscalculated? That you're right and I'm wrong? We stopped a significant shipment of narcotics today, and that's part of the duty we are sworn to uphold. Part of our job. But if it will make you feel better... what would you have me say?"

"That you won't do it again." I'm surprised that I have to spell that out.

And he's surprised enough to look up at me. He frowns as if he doesn't understand, then his eyes slide away once more, but I get the impression he's not seeing anything in my darkening, messy apartment.

He's a bright guy, if he thinks about this hard enough, he'll get to the part where he'll reverse our roles and realise that if it had been me in the water and him on the quayside, he'd have been...

Well, that's a good question. What would he have been?

A bit ticked off?

Short one partner?

Disappointed that I hadn't remembered the "bloom-close" thing?

Or something else? Something like the terror that I'd felt, standing there thinking I might as well jump, because there was fuck all point to hanging around if he wasn't coming back?

He's staring at me now - he looks stunned - like he's never actually seen me before. And he has to do this bit on his own, just like I did. No one else can point out something as fundamental as you being in love. If you can't make that deduction yourself, well, it's not the right time yet.

The 'phone rings, making us both jump. I let the machine pick up. It's Welsh asking after Fraser and getting him to call the division in the morning so his statement can be taken down over the 'phone. Neither of us seems surprised that Welsh knew he'd be here.

When the apartment goes quiet again, Fraser is still staring at me. Not that I don't appreciate his attention and all, but I'm beginning to feel a little weird about the intensity of his glare. The atmosphere in here must be pretty thick, because Dief decides he's had enough and clicks over to the window and out into the night with a freaky flick of his tail.

Finally Fraser reaches back for his mug, grabs the handle and the self-contained Mountie seems to have a dose of the shakes himself. His eyes are huge in his pale face and they watch me as I move over to him to steady his hand and guide it, so he can take a sip.

He swallows. "Ray... I could have... and you would never have known..." he mutters, shaking his head as if distracted. "I didn't know... I didn't know..."

"What didn't you know, Fraser?" I ask him quietly. "That I was in love with you? 'Cause that's bullshit and we both know it. We've been doing this... thing... this... whatever it is we're doing for _months_ now." His hand is still chilled under mine, his square fingers clammy against the warm mug. "A blind man could've seen it, Fraser! People we'd never even _met_ knew it. Dogs in the street knew it!"

"I didn't know it could be something else. I had no idea that you wanted more. Love is such an inexact word - it can be a multitude of things." And his face looks so bleak at that instant, I know he's remembering her - the bitch that screwed him over and almost got him killed for his trouble. But then he says, "I thought perhaps an attraction, a passing infatuation..."

"Attraction? Infatuation?" What the fuck? Does he think I'm sixteen? Does he think I'm Frannie? "Fraser, you dumb fuck, you could have died!"

And he doesn't get it. He really doesn't. I know this job is dangerous. I live it every day. And I know there are no guarantees that we're gonna come home in the same state we went out in... if at all. But whatever happens - bombs, guns, beatings - **whatever** happens, it happens to both of us, or not at all. For some reason that makes me insanely angry. I take his soup and slam it on the table. All the fear, all the utter terror of standing at the water's edge with the frigid air biting at my face, is back - so strong I can taste it; bile and panic and the stinking, burning, oily flavour of the air and knowing I'd let him down, that I wasn't there for him.

I have to make him understand this. He has to know what he means to me. I reach out a hand to try to press into him the words I can't think of. Clever words, the right words that will make him listen this time. All my resolutions to keep calm are gone the instant I touch him - a fistful of cotton that's warm from his skin. A connection. A bridge from my planet to his.

"You could have died. You could have fucking _died_ , Fraser. What is _wrong_ with you? You don't do this stuff by yourself, hear me?" Shouting now - not good, but if I don't let out some of this ache inside me, I think I might have to hit him again.

"I didn't... I didn't..."

"Do _not_ tell me that. Do not tell me you didn't know. You knew I loved you. You _knew_. You said so on the quayside."

At least he doesn't deny it. His eyes are dark, barely any of that cloudy blue I've come to need. He licks his lower lip and looks away.

Does he think I'm like her? Does he believe that what she showed him was love? Could she have fucked him over so badly that he thinks that's all he can expect?

I want to let go of him. I want to push him away and see hurt on his face to make up for the part of me that's still dead inside, thinking he was gone. I want to throw him out, just to get a fucking reaction out of him. Oh, I know it's in there. I know there's more than just that clear pronunciation in a loud, lecturing voice that he passes off as anger.

I've seen it once or twice. His lips get tight and his eyes get hard. I wanted to shout 'Do it do it **do it**!' and, one time, he did. Just once. Hit me. Hard. Like he meant it. I think it was the most honest thing he's ever done. But then he had to spoil it all with the wasteland of disappointment that washed across his face afterwards. And fuck if that didn't hurt more than my jaw.

I take another fistful of shirt, my knuckles stretching the material and making it ride up his belly to reveal a glimpse of smooth skin. Uncovered. Unguarded. Something rises up inside me at the sight of it; something basic. It's like rage, but not. Protectiveness. Want. Hurt. Possessiveness. I expect there's a word for it - a word that means all those things, a word that Fraser'd know. All I know is what it amounts to is 'mine.'

I'm not thinking clearly. I don't know how long it is since I took a breath, or how I got to be straddling his thighs, my fists buried in his shirt pressing him back into the couch, and my face close enough to his that I can feel his surprised breath against my mouth. My body is between him and the light, so his face is in shadow, but it's enough that I can see what I've been waiting for.

His eyes blaze. His head comes up and his nostrils flare.

Finally. A reaction.

Need.

His mouth opens under mine the second I push my lips onto his. His hunger matches mine. My skin burns everywhere we touch, and I can feel my mouth swell as we kiss too hard, press too much, bruising and crushing each other in desperation. His hands are on my back, big and cool and impatient. He pulls me in, trapping my arms, like he can't stand for any distance between us anymore. He leans up as I force down, seeking friction; seeking contact. The heat and the ache of it are the sweetest thing in the whole world, which has shrunk down to this couch and these bodies.

I work an arm free and wrap it around his head and neck, driving my fingers into his hair, holding him still, so I can get more of my tongue in his mouth. He fights me, a strong hand cradling my skull, his tongue pushing back at me, struggling for dominance. I uncurl my hand and push against his chest, forcing him to give. He won't. He growls, and I lose what little control I had.

His expression is stunned when I rock back, but it just takes a second to replace that with... relief? Realisation? Ecstasy? I pull back his sweats and take a firm hold on his cock. His eyes roll shut and his mouth goes lax, opening on a kind of sigh or sob, and he'd look dumb if he didn't look so fucking hot.

He's smooth and hard and real; I run a rough palm from his balls to the leaking head and he makes an unholy sound. He's hairier than I expected; a thick, crisp patch of black that I want to explore later. For now, I just want to make him come, as hard and as long as I can. I want to hear my name on those bruised lips. I want him to gasp and plead. I can't explain it, but I need it.

"Ray."

My hand is punishing, fast, demanding and not at all gentle, but he grunts and moans my name, lifting his hips and pressing himself into my grasp, wanting more.

"Oh God! Ray, _please_."

He wants to be kissed, his chin is lifted, asking, but I need to see his face, and I keep my head up, away from those tempting lips. I want to see every twitch, every wince, every grimace as I work him up to the edge. He's close, he's so close, chest heaving, face contorted.

"Oh, Ray! Oh!"

He opens his eyes, expecting me to back off, expecting me to tease him and let him hang, but that's not for now. I'm not that Ray right now. I'm just full of surprises today, aren't I?

"Give it up," I whisper harshly.

I twist my wrist on the next upstroke and rub a dry thumb over the tip of his dick and he convulses, caught off-guard. His head falls forward onto my shoulder as he shudders his way through his orgasm, gasping. The thick spatter on my fist and wrist feels cool and plentiful, and my hand slides on him now as I work him through the rest of it. I want it all. I want each and every ounce of this wrung out of him. It's mine. He owes me.

I only stop when he hisses at my touch; when the sensitivity of his skin gets too much for him to stand. In the intensity of his release, I'd forgotten how hard I was. Now it's instantly impossible to ignore.

Thighs screaming, I slide off his lap, take his wrist in my hand and pull him up. His eyes are half-lidded, sated and lazy, but he complies when I tug him towards my bedroom. We stumble, we run into furniture and doorframes, but we make it to my room. With impatient, stupid fingers I strip him, yanking his shirt off and pushing down his sweats, which he steps out of obediently.

I take his mouth again, then step back to look at him. And that's when it hits me.

I can see the marks on his skin by the light from the living room, but I click on my bedside lamp anyway. He's bruised from hip to shoulder, deep red smudges edging to purple already on his fair body. He looks worse even than in the hospital. The impacts from the explosion debris are still coming out.

What the fuck am I doing?

This is the man I claim to love. The man who was blown up today and spent more than twenty minutes in water cold enough to kill you. This is a man who is most likely in shock. My partner. My best friend.

And what do I do?

I jump him. I kiss the fuck out of him. I stick my hand down his pants and jerk him off roughly enough that it makes him grit his teeth. And then I drag him in here to... Oh God. I was going to...

I feel like I want to puke again, and I sit down heavily on my bed, all the aggression and lust gone in an instant. I look away from his battered body and his confused face.

"Christ, I'm... I'm so sorry. Get into bed, Fraser. For Chrissakes, keep warm." Out of nowhere a ridiculous giggle threatens. _Now_ I'm concerned about his temperature? It's a bit late for the nurse-act, I think. If I haven't made his condition worse, I definitely haven't helped it with my fucking temper and stupidity. "I'm not gonna.... You don't have to... Please, Fraser, just get into bed."

What did I hope to achieve by this? How did I think this would bind him to me and remind him to keep his stupid self alive? 'That's what you get when you don't behave, Fraser?' Christ! I think I've reached an all time low. Maybe he's right. Maybe I am just like her. She couldn't show him real love and going by my recent performance, neither can I.

I can't bring myself to look at him. He's just standing there, waiting. Probably wondering how fast he can get out of here, and how far away he can get before I come after him.

It's been building for hours, but now I can't prevent it any more. I drop my head, cover my face and the tears come, faster than I can wipe them away. I fight to keep my breathing even, but I guess it's what gives me away.

His knee is a warm pressure against my own.

"Fraser, you need to stay warm," I grind out through a sob-choked throat. "Get under the covers, I'll sleep on the couch."

He doesn't move away. Instead he drops down to his knees in front of me and puts a tentative hand through my hair.

I shake my head, dislodging his fingers and avoiding his eyes. He doesn't try to touch my hair again, and I think he's given up. And then I feel his fingers brush up the inseam of my pants, firm enough that it doesn't tickle, but still gentle.

"Fraser, don't," I mutter and grab at his wrist. Quickly, before I can react, he presses the heel of his other palm against my groin. My erection had flagged at the sight of his abused body, but not completely. He follows the shape of me with the side of his thumb, which perks it up considerably, despite dire warnings from my head that this isn't going to happen.

He doesn't try to get free from my grip - he doesn't need to. With strong, sure fingers, he pulls down the zipper one handed, reaching in and touching me slowly, reverently.

"You don't have to," I whisper to him, torn apart. I want this. I don't want this. I want this. But not like this.

"I want this," he says, low and rough.

I look up at him - I need to see that truth there. Need to see _his_ need. His eyes are waiting for me. Steady. Certain. Unafraid.

I sit up straighter and Fraser knows this is my answer and an invitation. His gaze flares darker still. He leans in and touches his tongue to my cock, tasting me, learning me. I lean back on my elbows, and he pulls at the wool of my suit pants and my shorts until I'm completely exposed.

He takes his time, running his lips over me, touching only the tip of his tongue to me here... and here... in places he can see something I can't. His thumb traces the bone of my hip, his fingers stroke the skin beneath the hem of my shirt and the crease between my thigh and my belly.

My breath catches, the tracks of my tears cold on my hot face. I trust him with my life, every fucking day, but this is something else. To be so completely at his mercy - I've forgotten what it's like to be this open with anyone. And after what I just did to him, I don't know exactly what he wants from me. Power? Control? Choice? The things that I just took from him?

I close my eyes. Seeing him like this is too much - the feelings churning inside me too strong. I can't just let him do this without getting it straight in my head.

"Fraser, you don't have to do this. What I did... in there, it wasn't a favour or anything. You don't owe me. I didn't do it because I wanted you to... oh _god!_ "

I am rapidly losing the plot here. The sensations are coming too fast and too hard. I can't concentrate. I sneak a look. Fraser has a big, big, big hand curled around me, jacking me slow and tight, and the crown of my dick just inside his pretty lips. He looks... He looks utterly beautiful.

I squeeze my eyes shut again. "Fraser, you need to stop, because I can't... I can't...

"Shh!" he murmurs, taking his lips off me and that's good. I mean, no, it doesn't feel good - nothing like as nice as being inside that clever mouth of his - but it's good because I can take a breath and say the things I need to get out before...

Sweet Christ and all the fucking archangels! His mouth slides down me and there's wet and heat and tight and I'm _so_ done. I drop back to the bed and my hands flail for something to hold onto. One handful of twisted sheet and one handful of soft hair are all that keep me from just winking out of existence altogether.

Bastard! Evil, wonderful, fan-fucking-tastic bastard! He _knew_ I was close - he knew! But he did it anyway. And, oh God, I don't think I'm ever going to breathe again. Every muscle in my body is seized, taut to the point of pain.

When finally, with a long lick that makes me whimper like a girl, he lets me go, I kind of fall apart. It's all I can do to open my damn eyes. He crawls up my body slowly and carefully. Those bruises must be really kicking in now. I roll onto my side and push my pants off like a drunk. He lays himself gently down beside me and closes his eyes.

Right.

Sleep.

God, I love this man.

I feel around behind me and find the duvet I didn't straighten this morning. I tug at it weakly until it covers us, tucking it well around his back and shoulders with heavy, clumsy hands.

He smiles, but doesn't open his eyes and that's the last I know.

 

The warmth is more addictive than cigarettes. I should open my eyes and get up, but like the nicotine hook, it's always just one more; one more minute of this feeling of peace and rightness and good things. I don't think I even remember _why_ I'm feeling this great - only that it's there, and it's real and I don't want to ever leave it.

Except my bladder has a different set of rules and to ignore them would be very, very bad. Reluctantly I open my eyes. It's later than I usually wake; the light coming in around the blinds is bright enough to have me looking for my clock. But between me and my clock is the most incredible sight.

Fraser - deep asleep with one arm thrown over his head and his mouth slightly open and wet. The hair under his arm is dark and somehow shocking when his chest is so smooth. He looks more relaxed than I've ever seen him - I wonder what the hospital gave him yesterday?

He breathes slowly and evenly, his chest rising and falling easily. His hair must have been damp from the shower when he fell asleep last night, because I've never seen him look so messed up. Those waves in his mountie-hair are all-out curls in real-life. I want to touch, but it might wake him.

There's a bruise on his jaw and another on his cheek, and his cut has oozed underneath the dressing. He looks like crap, but somehow that doesn't mar the overall effect of having a sleeping Benton Fraser in my bed - warm, close, alive.

I want to stay here, with him asleep next to me forever. All the time he's here and sleeping I can pretend that this is how it is; that this is my life. Of course the second he opens those impossible blue eyes of his, the fantasy will be over, and all the rationalising and apologising will begin. This could go my way - it could be greatness, but, you know, if anyone can fuck this up, it's me and him. But a guy can dream until then.

Or until he's in imminent danger of pissing in the bed.

I get up as slowly as a pressing need to pee will allow, and I'm quietly pleased with myself because he sleeps through when I pad off to the bathroom. I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror when I wash my hands. I've still got my shirt and socks on from yesterday, which is kind of sad. We didn't even get to the part where we were both naked, but I definitely got the best of that deal - and it's still in my bed, so I'd better make the most of it.

Boldly (and hopefully) I dump socks and shirt in the hamper on my way back into the bedroom. If he's going to wake up and freak out, at least he'll get it all over with in one. Holding my breath, I slide carefully back under the covers, inching as close as I dare, slotting myself back into the warm space I was in before. Very gently I lay a hand on his arm and let out a happy sigh. His eyes are still shut - he's zonked. I win at stealthy!

"Good morning, Ray," he murmurs the second I close my eyes.

Dammit! I was going to wallow! I thought a good wallow would really set me up for whatever this morning has to throw at me.

I open my eyes again to a smugly smiling Mountie. _He_ still has his eyes closed and looks out for the count apart from the quirky smile.

"Hi," I croak. "Coffee?"

I am the master of misdirection.

He cracks open one eye. "Tea?"

"Coming up," I agree and, scooping up shorts on the way, scuttle out to the kitchen where it's safe and Fraser-free. I really don't want to be the one to start the "about last night" conversation. And for all that Fraser's a guy, and therefore allergic to the "talking things through" that Stell used to insist on, he's too nice a guy to let a couple of orgasms and some declarations of love just slide by.

I'm nervously pinging a spoon off my mug while I wait for the water to boil and wondering how this next bit is going to go down, when I notice the light in the kitchen change. Sure enough, Fraser is standing by the counter, looking a little off. He's pulled on his sweats, but his battered chest is bare - it looks like an impressionist study in pain. And that's when I get it; that's why he looks off - he's kind of stooped over and hanging on to the counter with white knuckles.

"What're you doing? Go lay down right now!"

Oh God. I've been gay for under twenty-four hours and already I sound like my mother.

"I can assure you, Ray..."

"I can assure _you_ , Benton, that if you do not get back into bed within the next thirty seconds, I will personally add to your world of misery with a kick in the head, then call that nice Doctor Fernando..."

"Hernandez."

"That's what I said... and tell him the kind of shape you're in this morning. Let him deal with you."

His face clearly says, 'traitor," but it would seem that mine clearly says, "try me," because he turns - slowly - and makes his careful way back into the bedroom.

A quick clicking reminds me that I had two house-guests last night. Sure enough, a furry face appears at my hip.

"You been out all night?"

Dief yawns hugely, showing off large white teeth and a big pink tongue.

"Hungry?" I recall that I haven't fed him since he's been here and feel a little guilty. I'm sure he's probably scared up something to eat, while prowling the city, but I don't want to think about that too closely.

I bribe him with a two-day-old muffin and some toast. He's not impressed, but it's all I have in the apartment right now. He settles down with a long suffering sigh to sleep off whatever it is that wolves do on the streets of Chicago at night.

I find Ben propped up in my bed, which would be top on my letter to Santa if it wasn't for the multi-coloured mottles on his skin and the pissed off but polite face he has on. I put down tea, toast and the blister pack of pain meds on the table beside him.

"Ray..." he starts soberly.

"Can you just..." I scrub a hand through my hair. "Fraser, could you please take your pills and eat your toast before we do this?"

One of us may as well be numb.

He nods and takes a sip of his tea. "Did my Sam Browne survive?"

Okay. That was unexpected.

I go back into the sitting room and pick up the plastic sack by the door where I dumped it yesterday. The smell when I open the top and start reaching around among the wet wool and leather takes me right back to that quayside again, and I find what I want and scoot back into the bedroom before I start with the shaking thing once more.

He takes the cold, damp leather and pops one of the little pouch things to remove a small, black jar. He opens it, sniffs it and seems pleased when it smells like crap - sadly, I'm close enough to get a noseful.

Gingerly, he begins to rub some of the smelly stuff onto a particularly gruesome looking purple patch on his ribs, but I can see that it's costing him to bend like that.

"Give it here. I'll do it," I say, holding out my hand for the jar.

Fraser looks at me curiously. Suddenly I'm jumped by about a hundred doubts at once. Why would he want me to touch him like that? What if he doesn't trust me anymore? What if he thinks I'm just using it as an excuse to lay my hands on him again? Is that what I'm doing? What do I do if he says no?

It feels like an eternity, but he finally stretches out a hand and gives me the stinky mucous stuff.

The ointment is cool, like grease on my fingers when I scoop a little up. Fraser has picked up his tea again, and I decide to start at the bottom and work up, so he can drink in peace.

The bruises along the bottom of his ribs aren't too bad, but when I reach the one on his side just beneath his left arm, he flinches.

"Sorry," I say quietly and he gives me a pained smile.

I finish all the marks I can reach and wait for him to eat his toast, then pass him the pain meds he's so pointedly ignoring. With a dirty look he swallows two of the flamingo pink pills and washes them down with the last of his tea.

"Roll over and I'll do your back," I mutter, getting a fingerful of the goop ready.

Of course it takes him quite a while to manoeuvre himself down onto his belly, breathing hard and sweating, and by the time he's settled, I'm wincing right along with him.

It's calming, rubbing the goop into Ben's smooth skin and I lose track of time, engrossed in my task. My fingers skim from bruise to bruise, never breaking contact with his back. If I ignore the slight fungus smell of the blubber balm, I can smell my Fraser underneath, warm and sleepy. It does things to me, but I'm so enthralled by my work, that I don't realise until I close the jar and the ache in my groin stabs at me.

Fraser sighs contentedly, I guess those meds are working already, and I pretend to fuss with a blob of ointment near his hip, when in reality, I just want to be connected to him again.

I lay down beside him, feeling mellow yet slightly buzzed from the happy place my dick is in right now. I don't hear him complaining about the hand, so I leave it on his back, exchanging heat, exchanging security.

Or that's what I thought we were doing.

"You know, Ray, that finding physical comfort is a completely natural human response to a traumatic experience," Fraser says quietly.

I start a little and open my eyes. I can tell from the minimal light through the windows that I've been dozing and the sun has moved round. "Uh-huh. Whaddya mean?" I ask intelligently.

I look across to find his eyes, alert and intent, staring back at me. He's very still, very tense. Right. So this is important. So wake up.

"I mean that what we said yesterday and what we did last night, it could easily be explained away by an involuntary response to a life-threatening situation."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

So what's he saying? That it was a mistake and we only did the wild thing because we were both scared shitless yesterday? Does he mean himself or is he giving me a 'get out of jail free' card? And wouldn't that be just like Fraser?

And you know what? I'm too old for this shit. I could nod and we'd carry on the way we were; loving but not in love - or not admitting it anyway. And maybe that would be an end to it, but I'd always wonder if I'd said something different - right now, at this precise moment in time - that things would have turned out different. Better.

"Is that what you want to do? Say it was just the post-stress thingy that made us behave like that."

Back in your half, buddy.

"Post-traumatic stress disorder," he supplies with a softening of his eyes.

Knew it was something like that.

"Although technically speaking..." Fraser begins and that sounds like my cue to cut him off.

"Don't do that...that misdirection thing on me. Answer the question, Fraser. Do _you_ want to say it was all a reaction? Is that what you're saying?"

He takes longer to answer than any human has a right to when asked a question like that. It's not buddies to make a guy's heart stop like this, or his mouth go dry, or his coffee churn in his gut.

"No, that's not what I'm saying." He licks his bottom lip and looks down, his lashes hiding his eyes, and my heart re-starts with a thump that vibrates through the mattress. "I... it's just that if you were to feel in any way... uncomfortable about what passed between us, then..."

"Nah. I'm good with it," I say and deliberately close my eyes again. It's fun to imagine the expressions that could be crossing his face. Hey, he made me sweat and turnabout's fair play, or so I've heard.

So, as big, scary, life defining relationship conversations go, this one is never gonna be top-ten material. I was always more of a 'show' guy than a 'tell' guy. But I figure that if I stick around with him for the next fifty years or so, he'll eventually get the gist of what I'm saying here.

There's another long pause, but I'm ruthless and refuse to look at him.

"He had a partner, you know," Fraser finally mutters quietly.

"Hmmmm?" I'm cool. I'm... you know... unruffled by this gay thing. And I can be just as much of an infuriating bastard as he is.

"The Lone Ranger. He had a partner."

That's so dumb, it makes me open my eyes. "What are you talking about? He's the _Lone_ Ranger, Fraser. Not the One of a crowd Ranger - the single representative of a multitude of Rangers. The clue's in the name."

"He had a partner," Fraser insists. "A native guide. A talented scout and his friend."

And now he says it, I remember. Native American guy. Had a spotty horse.

"Yeah, yeah. What's his...? Toto! I remember."

"Tonto."

"Yeah. More of a sidekick though, than a partner, really."

"I disagree, Ray. Tonto was actually the man who saved the Lone Ranger at the very beginning of their adventures together. They each had their strengths and weaknesses. Their skills complimented each other and let them do their work efficiently. Combined they were greater than the sum of their parts."

"Better together, huh?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser says quietly.

I think I just got an apology and won an argument all in one. And that's not bad before I've even finished my first coffee of the day.

 

Epilogue

I reload quickly, not that it's gonna help much. They have us pinned down at the back of this old barn and we're fast running out of places to hide.

If I crane my neck, I can see daylight and freedom through the doors. There's no one there guarding them, but there's lots of bad guys closing in on us and we'd have to get past them to get to the doors. Add to that the homemade incendiary device that's ticking down somewhere in the mountain of insanely flammable hay bales stacked in here and you can see we're not having a good day.

We don't have much to work with. Some crates. A pile of dusty old sacks. A coil of rope. I glance across at Fraser and I can see that he's coming up with the same big fat zero as me. Where's MacGyver when you need him?

He looks at me and licks his bottom lip. And even imminent death by bad guy or being crisped by a homemade incendiary isn't enough to stop the zing that snakes all the way down my spine and into my balls.

He shrugs, then kind of gets straighter, pushing back his shoulders and settling his hat.

And here we go again. He's going to step out and using only the zen Mountie power of his mind, he'll persuade these hardened criminals - the same ones who have been trying to kill us for the past five minutes - to throw down their weapons and surrender. Thank you kindly.

Suddenly there's the roar of an engine being gunned, then shouting and three bullets thunk into the woodwork next to my head. I pop up to return fire, but they're all piling into an unmarked van, pulling the door shut and driving off in a cloud of dust and horseshit.

Fraser and I break cover and run for the door, but they're really moving, and the shots I get off at their tyres are worse than useless.

I turn to Fraser, but he's gone.

"Fraser! It's gonna go off any second. C'mon!" I yell.

"Thirty two seconds actually, Ray," comes his muffled voice.

Behind me Fraser is working his way through the hay like a gopher through a golf course. I don't actually spot him, but his progress is easy to see from the flying bales.

"That's not enough time. Let's go!"

"A-ha!" His head pops up, complete with straw decorated Stetson. "Catch," he says and throws me... _throws me_ the fucking device. What's worse and an indication of how I've been hanging around with him too long is that I _catch_ the damn thing.

And then my brain kicks in. "Fraser! What the fuck?"

"In the pond, Ray, if you please," he says, pointing out into the sunshine.

Right. Pond.

I'm too scared to look at the numbers on the thing. I just run, then when I think I'm near enough I skid and throw the thing as hard as I can into the slimy, green water.

I duck and cover, and am disappointed when all I get is a load of bubbles and some fizzing.

A hand comes down into my line of sight.

Fraser pulls me up, his eyes twinkling. "Good work, Ray," he says in a voice that shouldn't really be allowed outside our bedroom.

Then he's all back to business again, looking around. I holster my gun, call in the van and the location, and by the time I've done that, he seems to have a plan.

Oh, no.

No.

Once again, his big, capable, utterly deranged hand comes into vision. "Ready, Ray?" he asks. I look up, and yep - Fraser on horseback, leaning down to pull me up behind him. "I think if we cut across the field, we can catch them before they get to the highway."

And what's most insane about this - what really makes me think that this is some special kind of stupid - is that I don't even argue. I _asked_ for this. I give him my hand and somehow scramble up behind him on this fucking enormous, white horse, holding tight around his waist.

"Ready?" he asks again.

Would it matter if I wasn't?

"Ready," I growl, "Just don't say it, okay?"

He turns Mister Ed toward the road taken by the bad guys.

I hang on tighter.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Ray," he says and sticks his heels into the horse's ribs.

But it's too good to pass up, even for my perfect Mountie. So even though I'm hanging on for all I'm worth and my life is flashing in front of my eyes, I'm not deaf. I hear him, the evil bastard, when he calls "Hi-yo, Silver! Away!"

He'll pay. Later. And pay and pay. Me and Kemosabe are gonna have a long, long chat about this one.

Fin


End file.
